


anti-venom

by youcouldmakealife



Series: but always in tandem [22]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:54:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8810362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: They’re playing even better together now. Robbie would think it’s some kind of lovesick bullshit coming from him, except their stats reflect it too, and Georgie even gets a call from Barons management telling him they’re impressed by how he’s ‘picked it up’. “Maybe I should tell them my secret charm or something,” Georgie says.“Dear Barons: it’s the power of gay love,” Robbie says. “I’m sure that’ll go over super well in a swing state.”





	

If shit in Toronto got too close thanks to one selfish fucking player, well, losing to Ottawa’s not really a concern, because they’re lit. They come out of the game with a 6-1 win, two points for Robbie, one a primary assist off a goal from Georgie, the other a secondary assist — Robbie to Georgie to Matty’s skate. That goal was just lucky timing, but Matty gets another that’s pure fucking gold, top shelf, then a dirty one crammed between Hill’s legs.

Robbie throws his Celtics hat at Matty’s chest after the game.

“Huh?” Matty asks.

“Hatty, Matty!” Robbie says.

Quincy groans loudly.

“We’re going out to celebrate this shit,” Robbie says. “Chaps, where’s good?”

Chaps shrugs. 

“Cap Q?” Robbie asks.

“The Market’s close to our hotel,” Quincy says. “As long as we stay the fuck away from Sens House or the Senate, I think we’re good.”

“Or Real Sports,” Chaps says.

“That’s true all the time, though,” Quincy says. “Never do Real Sports.”

“Not even once,” Wheels says solemnly.

Most of the roster is in for an outing, because routs and hatties are to be celebrated, especially together, and this win just snatched Craney best GAA in the league on top of everything else. They end up at the kind of pub that pretends to be Irish, one you can find in basically every city in North America, huge and generic. There’s apparently a waiting list, but the bouncer recognizes someone — probably Chaps — and suddenly they are super okay to make room for almost twenty dudes and waive the cover. Some poor people probably got booted out of either reservations or tables, and Robbie would feel bad, but it’s fucking freezing out, so screw ‘em.

“This is the best your city has to offer me?” Robbie says. “Weak, DQ.”

“Best that means we can walk back to the hotel,” Quincy says.

“It’s below _zero_ , you psycho,” Robbie says.

“You’re a fucking baby,” Quincy says, but like. Nicely. It’s a weird skill Quincy has.

Robbie hits the bathroom once they get inside, and when he gets back, everyone’s already settled. They couldn’t get tables together, unsurprisingly, and they’ve splintered into four groups — The Vets, The Frenchies, Misc, and, well. Robbie’s Boys. The table Robbie would go towards without blinking if Georgie wasn’t sitting at it.

Robbie can’t really do the ‘it’s cool, it’s cool, I’ll just avoid the shit out of my buddies’ thing, Georgie or not. Like, for one, it’s not just Georgie, it’s Matty and Craney and Wheels and Chaps, and like — Robbie did rookie year with all those guys except Georgie and Chaps. They all came up together, different ages, different draft positions — or none in Robbie’s case — but same start. Quincy calls them the Class of Canadiana (Plus Masshole), which. Rude but true. A bunch of Prairie hicks Robbie loves the shit out of, plus him, admittedly a Masshole.

Robbie could sit somewhere else, except Quincy and Kurmazov and Salonen look like they’re having a Serious Business Old Man conversation, either about their kids, since Quincy’s been collecting Parent Opinions lately, or about the Caps, and either way Robbie’s got no place there. Carriere, Martinique, and Poulin are for sure talking in French, so either it’s all going to go over his head or he’s going to be the reason they have to switch to English, which is a dick move. No room at the misc table, since they’ve already somehow crammed five people into a four seater, Gibson perched on Garza’s lap. Could go stand at the bar, but he’s the furthest thing from a loner, so everyone will know he’s doing it just to avoid Georgie, which — he would be. Like a chickenshit.

It reminds him a bit of Chaps’ birthday when he slides in beside Matty, across from Georgie. He tells himself Chaps’ birthday wasn’t too bad, now that he knows Chaps’ discomfort was more torrid romance than squeamish homophobe. Except Chaps’ birthday ended in Robbie telling Georgie to go fuck himself and going to bed with his throat tight, eyes burning. Except Chaps’ birthday had Georgie telling him he was the love of his fucking _life_ , which is — it’s a total crock of shit and it’s something Robbie has been trying not to think of, forcing down, because the flash of reaction he gets every time is something too fucking close to hope for him to stomach.

“Sup, losers?” Robbie asks. It sounds kind of half-assed. He hopes no one notices.

“Losers and Matty,” Robbie revises after he gets three unimpressed looks. “With the Hatty.”

“Sounds like a Dr. Seuss book,” Crane says musingly.

“Don’t write it,” Matty says.

“I’m going to write it,” Crane decides.

“Ugh,” Matty says, and knocks his head on the table. He’s got the Celtics hat Robbie threw at him on backwards.

“Can’t believe that fit your fat head,” Robbie says.

“No one has a fatter head than you do,” Crane says.

“Burn,” Matty says into the table, and Robbie flicks him in the back.

Georgie’s looking at him, frowning.

“What?” Robbie barks, defensive, before he remembers he’s supposed to play nice.

“Nothing,” Georgie says, mild, like Robbie’s being ridiculous. Maybe he is. “You had a great night.”

“I was no Matty,” Robbie says. “And neither were you, but. You too.”

“Thanks,” Georgie says.

“I was a Matty,” Matty says, straightening up. 

“ _Yeah_ you were,” Robbie says. “And for that, all the drinks.”

It may not be all the drinks, but it’s certainly some of them, three pitchers ordered to start, one of those sticky sweet shooters that Matty unashamedly adores — more sugar than alcohol — for each of his goals.

They’re all a few drinks in when one of the groups that’s been eyeing them — they’re for sure not anonymous in a city that produced one of their All-Stars _and_ their captain — musters up the courage to come over. The Misc table’s already been overrun — Robbie could have called it the single and ready to mingle table, minus Gibson, except their own table is technically single except for Chaps and Wheels, at least as far as Robbie knows about Georgie — but they’ve had peace until now. 

It’s three girls, a blonde and brunette and a redhead, like the start of a bad joke. It’s probably Chaps they’re angling for, judging by the looks, but Chaps isn’t paying attention to them, busy texting, either at Volkie or Lourdes, judging from the smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Volkie or your boo?” Robbie asks him, and David looks up, flushes a little.

“Your boo,” Robbie decides.

“Who’s your boo?” Wheels asks.

Chaps glares at Robbie. “Robbie thinks he’s being funny,” he says.

“He always does,” Crane says. “And he’s always wrong.”

Robbie gives him the finger.

“My dad’s originally from Ohio,” he overhears the blonde say, and suddenly knows exactly where this is going.

“Yeah?” Georgie asks.

“He’s a huge Barons fan,” she says. “Like, massive.”

“There are worse teams to be a fan of,” Georgie says, shoots her a grin. It’s a grin Robbie knows all too well from college, that grin that says ‘I could get pretty much anyone’s pants off in five minutes and I’m willing to spend that five minutes on you’.

“It would mean so much if I could get a picture or something for him,” she says. She’s leaning on the table, hand practically knocking Robbie’s drink over, dress low-cut enough that pretty much everyone at the table is probably getting an eyeful, except Robbie and Chaps, and only because Chaps is glued to his phone again. The way Matty looks down at his beer, cheeks heating, confirms it. “I left my phone back at my table, if you wanna—”

Robbie stands up, almost knocks into her, doesn’t bother to apologize.

“Getting something that tastes less shitty,” he says, not that anyone gives a fuck, Matty busy being bashful, Crane mocking Matty for being bashful, Chaps busy with his boo, Wheels reaching across the table and grabbing Robbie’s mostly full beer for himself. Georgie —

Well, like, four minutes and counting until she’s sucking his dick in the bathroom or he’s taking her back to the hotel.

Robbie makes it to the bar, blows out a breath, doesn’t hear anyone approach over the dull thud of music until Georgie’s right in his space.

“Robbie,” Georgie says, and his hand lands on Robbie’s back as heavy as a brand. They’ve touched since Georgie got here, but it’s been unavoidable — cellies, drills, collisions. This has intent.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Robbie spits out.

Georgie takes his hand away like he’s been scalded. Funny, because Robbie’s the one who feels like that right now.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Robbie repeats, and this time it’s a warning.

“Okay,” Georgie says, this tone like he’s trying to calm a deadly animal, which Robbie thinks might not be so far from the truth, because if he could spit venom, he would. Right into Georgie’s fucking eyes. Or gore him. Robbie’s never given a fuck about the whole horoscope thing, it’s a load of shit, but being a Taurus sounds good right now. Fitting.

There’s been a guy staring at their table most of the night. They’re in Ottawa, Robbie’s sitting at a table with David Chapman, it could easily be just someone kind of starstruck, but there’s something about the quality of that look that makes Robbie think —

Robbie marches over to him. The guy had friends at the start of the night, but they’ve headed out and he’s kept looking, which Robbie thinks is sort of a sign.

“I’m Robbie,” Robbie says.

“I know,” the guy says. “I was at the game, you guys were—”

“Do you want to take me back to your place?” Robbie asks, abrupt.

The guy’s eyes kind of widen, and for a second Robbie thinks he got it totally wrong and this is going to blow up in his fucking face, but then he goes, “Okay.”

“Cool,” Robbie says. “Let’s go.”

“Now?” the guy asks.

“Now,” Robbie confirms.

“Um, just — my bill,” the guy says.

Robbie pulls out his wallet, pulls out one of the too smooth plastic bills. “Will this cover it?” he asks. He thinks the red are fifties.

“Yeah,” the guy says. “Like, by a lot.”

“Okay,” Robbie says, hands the bartender the fifty. “For this guy’s tab,” he says. “Let’s go?”

“Okay,” the guy says.

“Okay,” Robbie repeats, then starts for the exit, not looking back to see if the guy follows, if anyone’s paying attention. If Georgie’s still there at the bar, watching him Georgie Dineen even better than he did.

 _Only took me one minute_ , Robbie thinks viciously, and he’d expect to get some pleasure from the thought, but mostly he feels hollow.

*

There are a lot of upsides to being Georgie Dineen’s boyfriend rather than his best friend. Or, in addition to his best friend, because fuck knows Robbie’s not giving up that title to anyone.

Pretty key one first: Robbie cannot overstate how fucking awesome it is to get laid like, all the time. And it being awesome sex. And the fact that the sex is with someone he’s stupid for. He’d already known, like — things got better with Francis from hook-up to really liking him, but even that’s nothing in comparison how it feels with Georgie, not just the sex but the fact they can study or play video games or sketch plays out before, that after Georgie tucks an arm around him, presses a kiss to his forehead or his temple or wherever’s in reach, that Robbie can sleep there, cramped and happy in his too small bed and wake up with him in the morning and that Robbie doesn’t feel self-conscious around him ever because Georgie always looks at him like _he’s_ the one lucky to be there. He’ll say it too, and only grin and repeat it while Robbie groans and tries to cover Georgie’s mouth and pretend that it doesn’t hit him like a punch in the stomach but like — a good one.

Another big one: they haven’t told the team or anything, hell, at BU only Cassidy knows, but their families know and are more supportive than Robbie could have expected. Robbie’s mother not only possibly has a crush on Georgie — Robbie can’t judge, he feels her — but also has, like, a lady crush on Georgie’s mom. Robbie is pretty sure his father would adopt Georgie if it was possible, and if the Dineens let him, which they wouldn’t, because the Dineens are like a sitcom close-knit family. Robbie’s never seen anything like it before, not with actual people, and the thing is, they’ve practically adopted him too, right into that cozy madness. 

Every time Georgie heads home on a free weekend Robbie’s invited, not like a ‘I guess Robbie can come’, but a ‘Bring Robbie, the boys say that he cheated at Halo last time and they need revenge’, ‘When Robbie comes, William says not to forget that book he said he’d lend him’. It isn’t just messages relayed from Georgie’s mother to Georgie to Robbie either: he’s got the Dineens on facebook — all of them, and he thinks Georgie’s mom is the most active on it of any of them — and Dickie sends him memes and he gets into these long, meandering philosophical conversations with William, who is so sharp and so fourteen, and is going through a thing where he’s questioning everything around him and yet still trusts Robbie to know more than he does, even though Robbie’s pretty sure William’s already smarter than him. 

And Georgie’s fine with it, Robbie horning in on his family. Georgie’s more than fine with it, will lean over Robbie when he procrastinates on his essay because William is genuinely interested in economics and _no one_ wants to listen to Robbie on economics, including Georgie, and will smile, wide and genuine, when he sees William’s name over the chat, kiss the shell of Robbie’s ear and lean over him and type ‘Hi Will’ and laugh when Will says ‘go away I’m talking to your boyfriend not you’. Robbie loves Georgie, Robbie’s known that from before they were anything like what they are now, but man, he’s kind of falling for all the Dineens too — like, not in a _weird_ way, just a — of course a family that made Georgie the way he is would be this great.

There are a bunch of others that aren’t like, categories, but: the way Georgie sleeps, lashes long and dark against his cheeks, eyebrow with this little furrow like he’s concentrating really hard on his dream. The fact that even though they can’t really do the PDA thing, Georgie catches Robbie’s feet between his every time they eat together, traps it, when they aren’t kicking at one another under the table, light little love-taps. The way Robbie feels so fucking accomplished when he manages to undo Georgie, which is more and more as time goes on, not less, because Robbie wants to learn everything he likes best with the kind of fervor he usually just has with hockey, that desire to improve, and when Robbie is intent on something, it’s going to fucking happen, and this is no exception. 

The way Georgie walks him to classes that are completely out of his way or clash with his schedule, even when it’s cold as balls outside. The way Georgie is still possibly the most annoying studier in the world and study sessions always end with Robbie throwing something at him or them making out, or both. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he grins, something so common that they’re still there even when he isn’t, like an echo of his happiness, and the way Robbie still can’t peg the color, a drifting, constantly changing hazel that Robbie’s fascinated with. The way his teeth are the tiniest bit crooked, and you’d think it’d make the whole ‘Mr. Perfect’ thing vanish when he smiles, but it always seems to do the opposite. The freckles scattered across his cheeks, so faint you can’t see them until you’re so close everything gets a little unfocused, and the places they congregate, his arms, yeah, but the occasional constellation on his chest or the back of his neck or the ticklish skin of his side.

His dick. Let’s be honest, here. Robbie appreciates the _fuck_ out of his dick.

If Robbie thought he was in love before — and he was — it’s nothing compared to what he feels for Georgie after three months. 

Possibly the best thing (until Robbie’s in bed with Georgie, because then it’s the best thing, every time): they’re playing even better together now. Robbie would think it’s some kind of lovesick bullshit coming from him, except their stats reflect it too, and Georgie even gets a call from Barons management telling him they’re impressed by how he’s ‘picked it up’. 

“Maybe I should tell them my secret charm or something,” Georgie says.

“Dear Barons: it’s the power of gay love,” Robbie says. “I’m sure that’ll go over super well in a swing state.”

Georgie rolls his eyes, grins. 

Robbie can’t overstate how much he isn’t exaggerating the improvement. Georgie gets on the initial list for the Hobey Baker, then kills it all the fucking way to the final three, because he’s a fucking boss and can’t be ignored.

They make it to the Frozen Four this time. They make it to the fucking finals, but they lose in the end to the Friars. It’s fucking killer, and for no one more than Georgie, who looks gutted by it, losing in front of his family to a team from Providence. It’s another fucking kick in the teeth after he got stoned out of the Hobey Baker two day before they get knocked out, so as far as weeks go, well. It’s probably the anti-Best Fucking Week of Robbie’s life. He hurts for himself, and he hurts for Georgie, and they feel like the same thing.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It definitely wasn’t theirs. That doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“What can I do?” Robbie asks that night, hovering like he might sting Georgie if he touches him.

“Just. Be here,” Georgie says, and that doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s something Robbie can do. He keeps a careful distance in case Georgie wants some space, but Georgie hauls him in soon enough, and after that he clings to Georgie just as hard as Georgie’s clinging to him.

“Always, okay?” Robbie murmurs into Georgie’s hair.

“Promise?” Georgie asks, and he sounds cracked open, raw.

“Yeah,” Robbie says. “Promise.”


End file.
